Wind Guide You
by Stormcloak
Summary: After crossing paths with Ulfric Stormcloak at the age of eleven, the course of Annika's life was forever changed. Two decades later, she returns to Skyrim to join the rebellion, but finds herself fighting more than just one war, as dragons, conspiracies, questions of fate, and her own inner demons rise to challenge her.


**_AUTHOR'S NOTE: I am looking for critique on whether the opening chapter follows the game too closely. The game begins the same way for everyone, and becomes what the player makes of it; I wanted to mirror that in this story, starting in Helgen and following my character's personal quests and battles alongside the game's. But I am worried that some readers, put off by too-familiar opening scenes, will turn away too soon to see the original plots that come into play later on. Your input on this matter is greatly appreciated!_**

* * *

**_Chapter One: Awakening_**

* * *

The first thing she noticed was the cold.

The chill that bit at Annika's skin was a hundred times sharper than it had been only minutes ago. But had it been mere minutes? The stiffness in her back and the grinding ache of hunger in her stomach suggested otherwise. When she opened her eyes and blinked away the last blurry remnants of sleep, the dull light of morning settled it: hours, not minutes, had passed. Hours since she'd left Cheydinhal as the sun dipped below the mountains, since she'd reached Dragonclaw Rock in the dead of the night, since she'd been stopped by those Imperial soldiers on the road heading north. The left side of her face throbbed, a memory of an armored fist, of the blow that must have knocked her out.

A horse whinnied to her left, and all at once, she became aware of her surroundings. The horse, guided by an Imperial legionnaire gripping reins in gloved hands, pulled a wooden cart over a bumpy road. Two men sat across from her, and one next to her, each avoiding the eyes of the others. When she looked skyward, a wall of trees rose up before her. But these weren't the lush and leafy trees of Cyrodiil; these were the wild and snow-dusted evergreens of Skyrim.

Home.

The warm flash of joy that sparked inside of her at the revelation died with another: her wrists were bound.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake."

Annika jumped when the man's voice broke the rhythmic clicking of hooves against stone, and looked up from the thick rope scratching her wrists to see that he was bound just as tightly as she was.

"You were trying to cross the border, right?"

She hesitated before nodding, uncomfortable to suddenly be under the scrutiny of a strange man. His face was open and kind, and framed by the thick blonde hair that was the mark of a Nord, but she had lived long enough to know not to trust anyone who hadn't earned it.

"Walked right into an Imperial ambush, I bet," he said. "Same as us... and that thief over there."

The man he nodded to scowled at him before turning to Annika, making her shrink back on instinct. "You and me, we shouldn't be here!" he cried, as though she were to blame for their plight. "It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants!"

The blonde man heaved a weary sigh. "We're all brothers and sisters in binds now."

On the road ahead, another carriage housed another handful of prisoners. Annika's brothers and sisters in binds. Maybe guilty. Maybe innocent. It didn't seem as though the Empire cared any longer... if it ever had to begin with.

She turned back to the passengers in her own carriage, and followed the thief's angry eyes to the man who was seated next to her. His back was to her as he watched the road disappear in the distance behind the carriage, and all she could see of him was hair as flaxen and wavy as her own, mingling with a heavy fur cloak that glistened with recent snow. He had been so quiet that she'd forgotten he was there, and as he turned towards her, as though he felt her gaze on him, she saw why: he was not only bound, but gagged as well. A dingy cloth hid the lower half of his face, but the defeat in his eyes was painfully clear.

The thief shrugged towards the gagged man. "What's wrong with him?"

"Watch your tongue!" the other man snapped. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim!"

Annika could not be sure if it was the carriage jostling her about, or if it was the brute force of her heart pounding in her chest, but all of a sudden, the entire world seemed to shift beneath her. Ulfric Stormcloak, close enough to reach out and touch, if her hands had been free to do so.

Of course she hadn't recognized him—she'd only seen him at close distance once in her life, and that had been two decades ago, when she was but a child. Those years seemed to melt away now, as if she'd come in from the cold to stand before a blazing hearth. Behind his dismal eyes, she saw the fire and valor he had looked at her with so long ago. Through that gag, she could imagine the confident smile he'd boasted in his early days as a Jarl. Oh, yes, it was him. It was Ulfric Stormcloak.

"Jarl Ulfric," the thief gasped. "But if they've captured you..." His words trailed off and his eyes went wide with fear as he came to a catastrophic conclusion.

Annika reached it at the same moment. Imperial soldiers carting a bound and gagged Ulfric Stormcloak to destinations unknown could only mean one thing: the war was over, and the cost of the Empire's victory would be the rebellion's blood.

The thief whimpered denials of his fate, the terror in his voice striking a deep chord within Annika. But right alongside the fear of her own death was the fury and heartbreak of coming all this way to join the fight, and being forced to watch Ulfric Stormcloak fall before she could. The terrible injustice of it settled upon her so heavily that she worried her resolve would crumble under the weight of it, and that she would die with tears frozen on her face.

Annika paid no mind to the continued discord between the men across from her, but she could not help but feel a twinge in her heart when the blonde proposed that a Nord's last thought should be of home. Hers would be—at least she had that to cling to. Now that she was back in Skyrim, breathing that crisp air, feeling the golden warmth of the sun on her face as it broke through the clouds, she knew without a doubt that this was her home, no matter how many years she'd been away. How long had she believed that she'd had no home, that there was nowhere in all of Tamriel that she belonged? But she'd been wrong. She knew that now. She was a daughter of Skyrim, and it would always be her home. As her eyes roamed over the snow-capped mountains and the towering evergreens, she thanked the gods that she was able to see it once more before being sent to Sovngarde.

As the cart rolled closer to the stone walls of an unfamiliar village, a soldier rushed out to greet the head of the convoy, a grisled legionnaire in ornate Imperial armor sitting high atop a horse.

"General Tullius, sir," the soldier called out. "The headsman is waiting!"

"Good," the general muttered, leading his horse through the gates. He turned to glance at the passengers of the carriages with narrowed eyes, staring directly at Ulfric for a long moment. "Let's get this over with."

As the carriage crossed the threshold of the village, the thief began to pray to the divines.

Within minutes of the convoy's arrival in what the blonde man called Helgen, villagers were clustered together on the side of the road, flushed out of their homes by the scandal of prisoners being carted through their little town. Annika could almost feel their eyes piercing her skin, judging her for crimes unknown, eagerly anticipating the moment of her execution with perverse excitement.

The carriage slowed as it turned into the town square and rolled past the headsman standing in the corner of the snowy stone courtyard, his axe polished and gleaming in the sunlight.

An Imperial soldier appeared at the back of the carriage a moment after it stopped, and motioned for its passengers to disembark. Ulfric stepped down without hesitation, and Annika followed in his wake, far braver than she likely would have been had he not been there beside her. The thief, however, seemed to be rooted to the rough wooden plank of his seat, until the blonde man kicked his boot.

"Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us," he muttered with the utter calm of a man who had accepted his fate.

The thief began to panic when the legionnaire pulled him forcibly from the cart, insisting that he wasn't a rebel, that they were making a mistake. But his pleas fell on deaf ears, giving Annika little reason to believe that begging for her own life would achieve anything.

She pressed her lips together and looked forward to the Imperial captain that stood before them all, commanding respect with her firm posture, and fear with her heartless eyes.

"Step towards the block when we call your name," she ordered, shooting hard looks at each of the prisoners in turn as the soldier beside her held up a length of fine parchment.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," the soldier announced, "Jarl of Windhelm!"

A collective gasp rose up from the villagers on the fringes of the town square as they realized the scope of the drama that was about to unfold before their very eyes. They turned to whisper into one another's ears, gawking and pointing at the leader of the rebellion, now at the mercy of the Empire he despised. A few appeared devastated, but the majority looked just as bloodthirsty as the Imperial captain did.

Ulfric stepped forward, his head still bowed, his fur cloak flaring out behind him in a sudden cold wind.

The blonde man from their carriage drew his shoulders back and held his head high, the best salute he could manage without hands.

Annika could only watch in stunned silence as Ulfric walked away from her, each step hammering a rusted nail into her heart. Beyond him, the headsman stood ready and waiting, stroking his axe with sickening glee. Panic began to rise up within her, turning her stomach and burning her throat, as she envisioned that mess of blonde hair being severed from that shaggy fur cloak, of Ulfric's blood coloring the snow beneath her feet. She slammed her eyes shut and prayed to the gods to take her first, so that she may escape the torture of witnessing the death of her hero.

"Ralof, of Riverwood," the Imperial soldier called out next.

The blonde man left her side and followed Ulfric to the center of the town square.

"Lokir, of Rorikstead!"

Once again, the thief refused to move, denying that he had anything to do with the rebellion, prompting the solder to grab him by the arm and pull him forward. They struggled until the thief managed to break free, and, without a moment's hesitation, ran for the road whence they had come.

Before Annika could even blink, a volley of arrows flew through the air and sunk into the thief's back, knocking him to the ground, where he lay still and silent, one arm still outstretched to the freedom he would never reach.

The captain turned back to the remaining prisoners, her face red with rage and her nostrils flaring. "Anyone else feel like running?"

Silence fell across prisoners and spectators alike as the weight of her words hit them all: their lives were in the Empire's hands, and they were powerless against it.

"You, there."

Annika's attention snapped back to the soldier, and she realized with dread that his eyes had locked onto hers.

"Step forward," he ordered.

She took a deep breath and willed her heart to calm down, but it seemed determined to make the most of its final minutes, and went on drumming its violent beat. She forced her feet to move, lest she, too, be struck down by an arrow. No, she would face her death with courage and honor. No one here would remember her once she was gone, but she wanted the gods to know that she did not die a coward.

The Imperial looked her up and down, one eyebrow raised in confusion. "Who are you?"

She had to swallow through the lump in her throat before she could answer. "Annika, of Kynesgrove."

Long wisps of his chestnut hair fell into his eyes as he studied the parchment in his hand. "Captain, what should we do? She's not on the list."

"Forget the list," the captain barked back, not even bothering to spare Annika a glance. "She goes to the block."

"By your orders, Captain." He turned back to Annika with a sigh. "I'm sorry," he said, his face drawn with honest regret—though not enough, it seemed, to question the execution of one who might be innocent. "Follow the captain, prisoner."

Once again, Annika had to fight to get her legs to work. They carried her to the center of the town square, threatening every moment to give out on her, but miraculously holding strong.

If the villagers' eyes had pricked her before, they burned right through her as she took her place among the other prisoners standing before the headsman. She had attended only one public execution in her life, when she was fourteen, and she had been sickened by it, and haunted by nightmares of it for months afterwards. She couldn't imagine how the people of Helgen could seem so thrilled by the promise of death—of _murder_—occurring right in front of them. To escape their harsh stares, she turned her focus to Ulfric, the one calm port in this storm.

What she could see of his face reddened as General Tullius approached him, the bronze embellishments on his Imperial cuirass gleaming in the sun.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," he boomed, speaking not just to the man he addressed, but to everyone present. "Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne!"

Ulfric growled through his gag, the only rebuttal he would be allowed to give.

"You started this war," General Tullius charged, pointing a finger at Ulfric. "Plunged Skyrim into chaos! And now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace!"

His words were punctuated by a rumble in the distance, not quite thunder, not quite the roar of a beast, but somehow both.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," the general dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Carry on."

"Yes, General Tullius!" the captain replied, sounding, for the first time since their arrival in Helgen, pleased to be there. "Give them their last rights!"

A priestess in golden robes lifted her hands into the air, an offering to the gods, and began to intone the blessings of the _Eight_ Divines. At the affront to Talos, one of the prisoners stepped forward and spat on the ground before her. The crowd gasped, but the priestess did not seem bothered; she only bowed away at the prisoner's insistence that the execution commence.

He took his place before the block, sneering at the headsman who seemed confused by such willing prey. The Imperial captain jumped to action, lowering the prisoner to his knees before kicking him down onto the block like a dog, determined to strip him of his dignity before stripping him of his life.

In a flash, the headsman's blade sliced through the air and into the prisoner's neck. Annika jumped back and clamped her eyes shut, but it was too late: the red ribbon of his blood was already burned into her memory, for however little time her memory had left.

Cries rose up from the crowd around them, some cheers, some curses; some hailing the Empire, some bold enough to shout their support for the Stormcloaks.

"Next!" the captain shouted over the din. "The Nord in rags!"

There was no question that she meant Annika. She was the only Nord in rags left now that the thief lay dead with an arrow in his back.

Her entire body began to tremble with the sort of chill she had never before known with her hardy Nord blood, and she could not breathe no matter how hard she tried. All eyes were upon her, even Ulfric's—and as their gazes met, as surely as though the priestess had cast a calming spell on her, Annika stopped shaking, and the weight that seemed to crush her lungs was lifted. The gods had answered her prayers: she would not be made to watch Ulfric die.

Once again, the sound that was neither thunder nor beast rippled through the clouds. Everyone turned their faces to the sky, save Annika. She had seen enough of the sky throughout her lifetime. She wanted Ulfric Stormcloak to be the last thing she saw before she left this world.

"There it is again," the soldier mused. "Did you hear that?"

"I _said_, next prisoner!"

Annika's gaze remained on Ulfric as she approached the block, and when his gag twitched across his lips, she wondered what he was trying to say to her, and if, in whatever life would come after this one, she would ever find out.

She did not close her eyes until her cheek touched the cold, wet block.

"To Sovngarde," Annika whispered to herself, not quite blotting out the sharp scratch of metal against stone as the headsman lifted his axe.

She waited for it to come down, waited so long that she wondered if she was already dead, already outside of the realm of Imperial soldiers and Stormcloak rebels and bloodthirsty villagers. But then another thunderous roar tore through the air, the ground shook beneath her, and screams erupted from every direction.

Annika's eyes snapped open to meet those of a massive winged beast perched atop a stone tower, haloed by swirling storm clouds that flung fire down at the world. The glowing red coals that were his eyes stared at her, studied her, bored into her, and when its mouth opened, for a single moment of madness, she thought it was speaking to her.

"_FUS... RO DAH_!"

She was blown over with the force of a hurricane, the sky spinning above her and below her, and then the world was dark once more.

* * *

She could not see anything but smoke. She could not hear anything but ringing in her left ear, and muffled screams in her right. But she could feel everything—the ground quaking beneath her crumpled body, tiny embers landing on her face, strong hands closing around her arms and lifting her to her feet.

No sooner had Annika left the ground than a blazing ball of fire struck the very place she had lain. The explosion rocked her back into a wall of a man, and she felt the soft caress of fur against her cheek. She blinked rapidly, her eyes stinging with the acrid smoke that blurred her vision, and slowly, the face of her savior emerged from the fog: Ulfric.

His lips moved as he spoke to her, free of the gag, but his words were nothing more than dampened noise to her ears, so far away that he might have been calling out to her from Oblivion.

She shook her head, desperate to slough off her disorientation, and coughed long and hard when she breathed in a fresh gust of smoke and ash. Finally, the cotton in her head began to thin, and a single, terrified scream reached her ears above all the others.

"_Dragon_!"

But that was impossible. Like most Nords, she had grown up listening to the fables and legends of dragons, the stories of the ancient warriors who had slain the beasts and ended their tyrannical reign over the world—but that's all they were, stories. She searched the skies for it and found it easily, a dark silhouette against the inexplicable storm, its leathery wings, as black as deepest night, outstretched as it circled back towards the village, fire shooting from its mouth. She'd never seen anything like it in all of her travels... but could it truly be a _dragon_?

"Come with me," Ulfric shouted, the first of his words that Annika could hear, as he tugged her toward the stone tower across the courtyard. She followed close behind him, clinging with bound hands to the man who had saved her life in more ways than one.

She had scarcely wondered what had happened to his gag and binds when she spotted a villager slicing through the rope around Ralof's wrists with a dagger. He caught up to Annika and Ulfric in moments, and the three of them stumbled into the tower as another ball of fire rocketed down from the sky and burst against the stone behind them.

"By the Nine," Ralof gasped, "what is that thing? Could the legends be true?"

Ulfric's brows drew together in apprehension, and he hesitated for a long moment before replying. "Legends don't burn down villages."

Another blast of fire rattled the very walls of the tower, and cries of pain and anguish reached in through its door and windows. The vast shadow of the beast covered the ground outside and darkened the room within. When it lifted, Ulfric peered through a window, his eyes following the beast's flight.

"We need to move, now!" He waved for Annika and Ralof to follow him out of the tower. "Head south for the village walls!"

They hastened down the road amongst panicked clusters of villagers, rebels, and legionnaires alike, all fleeing the same threat. Annika tripped over a body on the ground—the thief from her carriage—and that moment of stumbling was enough for her to lose Ulfric and Ralof in the fray.

And then the beast was circling back towards them, a torrent of flames spilling over the village on the crest of its roar. Knowing she could not outrun it, Annika ducked into what was left of the inn, raising her arms to cover her face as the heat of the fire poured in after her. She could barely see past the swirls of black smoke that rose up from the blazing wooden beams of the floor, and she held her breath as she ran through it, dodging fallen chairs and pools of spilled mead waiting to catch, finally leaping through a hole that had been ripped into the wall at the far end of the inn.

Outside, chaos reigned as balls of flame continued to fall from the sky like shooting stars, setting homes alight and sending men, women, and children running for their lives. Even as Annika watched, an Imperial soldier was struck down and writhed in the dirt as the fire consumed him. She wished no one dead, but she could not help but be thankful for this devastation, for though it was taking the lives of so many, it was precisely what had spared hers.

Charred wood and chunks of masonry blocked the main road, but with a quick glance around, Annika found a narrow alley between a house and a battlement. Just as she reached it, a legionnaire ran into the passage from the other side, waving and shouting at her to get back, but he need not have bothered: she'd already seen the shadow of the descending beast. It landed heavily atop the wall, sending a shower of pebbles and dirt onto her head. It was so close that Annika could see each scale on its toes and each crease in its wing, so close she could smell the pungent scent of death rising up from its skin.

The legionnaire pulled her against the wall as the beast snarled above them.

"Still alive, prisoner?" he shouted over the din. "Keep close to me if you want to stay that way!"

It was then that she recognized him: the man who had called out the names of those condemned to die at the Empire's hands, who had apologized to her for her fate.

"You sent me to the block to be executed only minutes ago," she yelled back at him. "Why should I trust you now?"

"Because I'm the only hope you've got!"

But that wasn't true. She had Ulfric. And Ralof. And her own strength of body and mind—she had not survived skooma-starved Khajiits in Elsweyr and vicious Alik'r mercenaries in Hammerfell by being helpless, after all. And dragon or not, she was still a prisoner—had the soldier not said as much himself? Would following him now put her head back on the block later? Maybe so. Maybe not. But if she had to choose between being executed by the Empire and being killed by a dragon, she would happily take the dragon. It would, at least, be a courageous death, and she would become a part of the legend.

Her decision made, Annika pulled away from the legionnaire and ducked beneath the beast's wing, its sharp talon narrowly missing her face as it reared back for another assault.

"_YOL... TOOR SHUL_!"

This time, she was certain: it was _speaking_. A language she didn't recognize, but a language all the same. Those were not just roars or growls; those were words, and the moment they died on its tongue, another stream of fire shot forth, catching two Imperial archers who had dared to aim for its snout.

Annika ran under its chin, choking on the lack of air and closing her eyes against the blinding light of the flames. Behind her, the legionnaire called out for her to stop, to come back, but she pushed on. She dove to the ground and crawled beneath the torrent of fire until she could slip into the side of the ruined house, its splintered wall providing little respite against the searing heat. She gave herself three seconds to catch her breath before lunging forward and running as fast as her shaky legs would carry her, never looking back, sure that the beast would see her, or smell or, or pick her up in its powerful claws and fly off with her.

But, by some blessing of the Divines, it didn't.

She made for a stone archway that led to the round tower of a keep, ducking beneath a barrage of arrows being sent skyward and dodging burning embers that rained down from above. When she emerged on the other side of the battlement, she spotted Ralof across the courtyard. Her heart leapt as he rushed toward her, but fell when she saw that Ulfric was not with him.

"Ralof," a voice shouted a distance behind her—the legionnaire. "You damned traitor!"

"There are bigger things to worry about now, Hadvar," Ralof shot back, reaching out to Annika when they met in the middle of the courtyard. "We need to get out of here! Come with us!"

"I will _never_ ally with rebels," the soldier snapped, glaring at Annika as he rounded the pair of them, as though his captain's suspicions of her guilt had been proven true. "I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!"

Ralof shook his head in disappointment. "Better the dragon than you."

The soldier's eyes went wide and terrified. Annika and Ralof turned to follow his gaze and saw the beast hurtling towards them, wings aloft and feet stretched out to perch on the nearby village wall.

It was looking at her again, at _her_—but such a thing was absurd. She was nothing. She was nobody. Why in Oblivion would a dragon be bothered with the likes of her? And yet... had it not been stalking her through this village? Everywhere she turned, there it was, unleashing its fury in a path that led straight to her.

No, it was just a coincidence. It had to be.

The legionnaire fled to save himself, but Ralof swung an arm around Annika's shoulder.

"Come on," he shouted, turning her towards the stone tower behind them, "into the keep!"

She was once again drowning in unbearable heat, in that stench of bitter smoke and burning flesh, but she pushed towards the wooden door of the keep, praying to every last Divine that it would not be locked, and nearly collapsing in relief when it flung open at her touch.

They flew inside, and Ralof slammed the door closed behind them, muffling the roar of the fire and the screams of those caught in it.

* * *

Annika followed Ralof's lead and leaned against a wall to rest and catch her breath. Anger welled up inside of her at the sight of Imperial flags hanging from the ceiling, fluttering in a draft that had blown in on their heels, and she had the sudden urge to pull them down and tear them into pieces.

"Are you all right?" Ralof asked.

The truth was, she didn't know. She lifted her hands to her face, fearing what she would find, but although her skin felt tender in places and her right cheek was sticky with a dead man's blood, she did not seem to be burned or wounded. Her head ached from hitting the stone courtyard when the beast had first appeared, and several of her long blonde waves were singed at the ends, but no bones had been broken, and no blood had been lost.

"Yes," she answered, nodding. "And you?"

Ralof shrugged. "I'm alive, which is more than most can say today."

"And what of Jarl Ulfric?"

He shook his head, and Annika's heart pounded out a terrified beat.

"I don't know," he said with a sigh. "We were separated when that... that _thing_ tried to land right on top of us. It was a dragon, no doubt. Just like the legends foretold. The harbingers of the end times."

"But dragons are supposed to be just that," Annika replied, "legends. Do you truly believe they're real?"

But Ralof was no longer paying her any attention. He pushed off from the wall and rushed across the circular room to kneel down before a body Annika had not noticed before.

"Gunjar?" Ralof shook the man, shouting his name into his ear two, three, four times more, but to no avail. He heaved a sigh as he slid the man's eyes closed with gentle hands. "We'll meet again in Sovngarde, brother."

Annika approached slowly, feeling that she was intruding on Ralof's grief just by being there. "He was your brother?"

"In binds," he replied, echoing his earlier words. "He was a Stormcloak, a true son of Skyrim. He fought bravely, and I'm sure he died that way." He stood up and turned back to Annika. "Come here, let me see if I can get those bindings off."

She held her arms out to him, and within a minute, he had the knot in the rope undone.

"There you go."

"Thank you."

"You may as well take Gunjar's gear—he won't be needing it anymore."

That may have been true, but the idea of stealing clothes from a dead man was a grim one. Her fear for her life, however, outweighed her respect for Gunjar's death, and even the dullest blade would find her heart through her own worn furs. They served well for hunting or traveling, but she would need something tougher if she was going to survive this day.

"Arkay forgive me," she murmured, kneeling at Gunjar's side.

Ralof joined her, and helped her to unbuckle and slide off the dead man's armor.

He turned away to allow Annika to dress. The chainmail was heavier than anything she'd worn before, and it hung on her like a dress; Gunjar's shoulders were considerably broader than her own. Once she added the leather tunic, she felt like a child in her father's armor, almost small enough to disappear in it. But when she draped the blue wrap across her chest, she swelled up with pride for bearing Stormcloak colors.

Behind her, Ralof rattled a barred door. "Locked. Maybe that gate—Imperials!"

Annika's head snapped up at Ralof's warning, and she saw them not far beyond the gate: a pair of Imperials rushing down a corridor and towards the central room of the keep, swords drawn and ready to be dipped in Stormcloak blood. They quickly raised the barrier and burst into the room.

Gunjar's iron axe felt clumsy and wrong in hands that were used to holding bows, but it was all she had to defend herself with, and when the first legionnaire lunged towards her, she swung the axe with all her might. It connected with thick steel armor, but the legionnaire staggered back, her eyes flaring with familiar rage—it was the captain who'd overseen the execution, and shrugged Annika's death off with cold indifference. With new anger, Annika raised the axe again and brought it down on the captain's helmet, sending her to the ground in a daze. A third swing hit the exposed line of her neck, and blood spouted from it like water from a spring.

It was not the first person she had killed—a woman traveling alone across Tamriel is bound to run into trouble—but it was, without question, the most brutal and violent death that had ever been dealt by her hands. She trembled as she stared down at the bloody captain with wide, haunted eyes, barely registering the other legionnaire hitting the ground beside her, Ralof's stolen sword deep in his stomach.

"You're wounded."

Ralof bent to inspect a slash across Annika's left arm. She hadn't even felt the captain's blade touch her. Now that she knew it had, pain flared up around the wound, and she winced as Ralof's fingers eased it apart so he could gauge the severity of it.

"Just a scratch. Nothing compared to what you did to that captain," he added with a smile.

"I don't like that axe," Annika replied. "I need a bow."

"An archer, are you? We'll have to find you one, then."

As Ralof rifled through the fallen soldiers' tunics, Annika raised her right hand over her wound and closed her eyes. A wonderful warmth emanated from her palm and enveloped her injured arm, knitting her skin back together with invisible threads and dampening the pain into a dull throb. When she opened her eyes once more, there was nothing left of the laceration but a soft pink line that would diminish with time.

"You can heal?"

Ralof was looking up at her with astonishment, and she wasn't sure if she should feel proud or ashamed. Most Nords looked down on magic, but most Nords didn't have to watch someone they loved bleed to death in their arms, knowing they were powerless to stop it. She would never let that happen again.

"I know a few spells," she told him, and though she tried not to sound defensive, she was unable to keep the edge from her voice.

But when Ralof's lips turned up into a smile, she relaxed.

"Never cared much for magic myself," he said, "but you won't hear me complaining when a priestess is using it to patch me up after a battle. Ah, found a key!" He withdrew his hand from the captain's armor and tossed Annika the key, a small bit of rusted silver. "See if it opens that door. I'd rather not have to go the other way—who knows how many more Imperials are down there."

Annika thanked the gods when the key turned easily in the lock. After pocketing a dagger and a few septims he'd lifted from the soldier, Ralof followed her through the door.

"Your name is Annika, right?"

"Yes," she answered. "And you're Ralof?"

"I am." He held out a hand. "Pleased to meet you."

Before she could stop it, a laugh bubbled out of her. The only reason she and Ralof stood before each other now was that they had just narrowly escaped having their heads lopped off by the Empire, and being roasted alive by a dragon—and he was _pleased_ about it? The idea was absurd, but she was thankful that he'd said it. After the horror they had just been through, it felt good to laugh.

Ralof returned her smile, and for the first time, she truly looked at him. He was young; close to her thirty-one years, but not quite there. He had the height and brawn of most Nord men, but there was an air of innocence about him that Annika envied. He looked, she was startled to realize, like a friend. Though it had been less than an hour since she'd woken up on that cart surrounded by strangers, it seemed that a lifetime had happened between then and now, and Ralof had done enough to earn her trust.

Annika slipped her hand into his for a shake. "The pleasure is all mine."

"Come on, let's get out of here before the dragon brings the whole tower down on our heads."

But whether the dragon's ire was drawn away from the keep or it was taken down by whatever forces remained fighting in Helgen proper, it gave them no further trouble as they rushed through the dark and damp inner corridors of the keep. Past an abandoned mess hall and a torture chamber that made Annika's blood run cold, they came to a hole blown through a wall, revealing a tunnel forged of packed dirt beyond. She didn't savor the idea of burrowing any deeper into the earth, but there was nowhere else to go. Halfway through the tunnel, a familiar sound reached her ears: Imperial voices. Ralof charged ahead, ready for another battle, but Annika, hefting Gunar's axe with a tired wrist, dreaded what they were about to walk into.

It was a cavern, wide and yawning and harboring another cluster of Imperials. The legionnaires rushed forward the moment they spotted them, the prisoners, the rebels, the Stormcloaks who were to be struck down at all costs. Ralof took on two by himself, but Annika was rooted to the ground with fear—until an arrow whipped past her head.

Across the cavern, a legionnaire was loading another arrow into his bow, but by the time he let it fly, Annika was moving too fast for it to hit its mark. She darted past Ralof and the two soldiers he fought, across a mossy stone bridge, and straight towards the archer. He shot a third arrow at her, but she lifted her axe just in time to deflect it. And then the axe was swinging through the air in a wide arc, connecting with the archer's shoulder and making him drop his bow as he howled in pain. Annika released the axe, still lodged in the man's arm, and seized up the bow. In a single fluid motion, she tugged the arrow he had meant to kill her with from his hand and shot it into his left eye.

As the legionnaire crumpled to the ground, Annika heard footsteps running up behind her. She pulled an arrow from the quiver on the dead man's back and whirled around, ready to fire at her new assailant. But it was only Ralof, the bodies of his foes lying broken and bloody behind him.

"Ysmir's beard," Ralof breathed, his eyes wide and trained on the arrow that pointed at his chest. "You _are_ an archer—and a damned good one at that!"

Annika lowered the bow, and got to work removing the sheath from the legionnaire's back.

"I have to be," she replied with a shrug. "There have been many seasons where I didn't eat unless I shot my meal myself. There's no better tool to hone a marksman's skill than hunger." Slinging the quiver over her shoulders, she felt, for the first time that day, like herself. "All right, let's keep going."

"And pray to the gods we don't run into any more trouble," Ralof added.

But they didn't. The caves were dark and eerie, one lit only by glowing mushrooms growing in patches on the wall, another dripping with webs that harbored frostbite spiders, easy prey for Annika's arrows. But the last of the Imperials were, thankfully, behind them.

When they finally emerged into fresh air and sunlight, blinking in the sudden brightness, a roar overhead sent a new wave of panic rushing through Annika's body. She ducked behind a rock, Ralof quickly following suit, and they watched the dragon soar through the sky, heading north, away from Helgen. Away from them.

They waited until the dragon had disappeared over the horizon before they stood up.

"Looks like he's gone for good this time," Ralof said, though not without a hint of worry in his voice. "We'd better clear out of here; this place is going to be swarming with Imperials soon enough. Where are you headed?" he asked. "You said you were from Kynesgrove, right?"

"Yes," she replied after a moment's hesitation, "but it hasn't been home for a very long time."

"Why not come with me to Riverwood?" he suggested. "My sister runs the mill there. I'm sure she won't mind giving us something to eat and a place to rest for a little while."

Annika returned Ralof's smile, deeply touched by his generosity. She had a bow and arrows with which to hunt and could have killed a rabbit to sate her hunger, but the comfort and pleasure of sharing a meal with the only friend she had was far more valuable than the meal itself.

"Yes," she told Ralof. "That would be wonderful."

He beamed at her. "That's great! Let's go, then—but keep your eyes peeled for Imperials!"

As they started down the dirt road that would lead them to Riverwood, the heavy weight of fear and uncertainty that had been dragging her down was lifted off of her chest. A day that had begun with such utter hopelessness was now full of promise, and for the first time since she awoke to find herself being carted towards her doom, Annika felt certain that she would be alive to see the sun rise tomorrow.

* * *

If it weren't for the towering mountain blotting out the sky to Riverwood's east, Annika might have thought she was walking into Kynesgrove. The vibrant evergreens, the thatched-roof cottages, the mist that had settled over the quiet village... it all reminded her so much of her home, of her past, that tears welled up in her eyes.

The people of Riverwood moved with slow and relaxed gaits, a jarring change from watching Helgen's frantic villagers flee a dragon's fire. Men were smiling, women were laughing, children were playing with a rowdy dog. It seemed impossible that peace could still exist in Skyrim after what had just happened, but here was proof that it did.

"Looks like nobody here knows what happened yet," Ralof murmured, leading Annika over a wooden bridge and the lazy stream that trickled beneath it. "Oh, there's my sister! _Gerdur_!"

A blonde woman carrying an armful of chopped lumber around the side of the mill whirled about at Ralof's voice, and her face lit up. She dropped the wood and rushed over to take him in her arms.

"Brother!" she exclaimed. "Mara's mercy, are you all right? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," Ralof said, swatting her hands away as they checked his face for cuts and bruises, but smiling at her fussing all the same. "Gerdur, I'm fine!"

"But we heard that Jarl Ulfric had been captured!"

"Keep it down," he hissed at her. "I'll tell you everything, but not here."

He nodded over his shoulder at the other mill workers, a couple of strong Nords and a wiry Bosmer, all busy chopping wood, but close enough to overhear their conversation between the hammering of axes.

"Let's go to the house," she suggested. "We can talk freely there, and you two can have something to eat—you look like you could use it."

As if on cue, Annika's stomach gave a great groan. Gerdur didn't even know her name yet, and here she was, offering her food. It seemed that this family was blessed with the merciful soul of Stendarr himself.

Ralof made the proper introductions on their way to Gerdur's home, a quaint cottage on the edge of the village. A hefty brown cow grazed on the front lawn, and two chickens stared up at the trio with interest as they crossed the threshold into the house. Ralof and Annika collapsed into chairs, and Gerdur urged her brother to talk while she gathered food and drink for her guests.

He told the tale of the ambush at Darkwater Crossing two days earlier, the long wait at the border while General Tullius contemplated their fate, and the journey to Helgen, where the headsman's axe was waiting. Gerdur thought him jesting when he revealed that a dragon had saved their lives; it was their dark and haunted eyes that finally convinced her of the truth. She paled when Annika told of the screams, the chaos, the carnage left in the wake of the beast's fire.

"By the Nine," Gerdur breathed when their story reached its end. "A _dragon_." After setting a platter on the table between Annika and Ralof, she drifted back to the kitchen, shaking her head, trying to come to terms with the nightmare Annika already wished she could forget.

A heavy silence fell as they ate, ravenous and desperate for food. The cheese was soft and spongy and possibly the most delicious thing Annika had ever tasted—until she bit into one of the apples, its juice running over her tongue like ambrosia. She wasn't meant to be alive to eat this meal, and knowing that made it all taste even sweeter.

"Thank you so much for the meal," she said between bites of crusty bread, feeling guilty, suddenly, for glutting herself like a barbarian. "I appreciate it more than you know. Is there anything I can to do repay your kindness?"

Gerdur thought for a long, quiet moment. "Actually, there is," she finally said. "If that dragon attacks Riverwood, we won't have a chance of surviving without walls or guards. We must get word to Whiterun, and ask Jarl Balgruuf to send soldiers to defend the village. Will you do this for us?"

"Of course," Annika answered without hesitation. "I'll leave right away."

Ralof jumped up from the table, startling the women. "I'll go with you!"

Gerdur rolled her eyes and smirked at her brother. "I should have known. You'll use any excuse to see Ysolda."

Ralof's face turned redder than Annika would've thought possible for a man, and his eyes skipped around the room as if unsure of where to land. She knew that look; it had been awhile since she'd last seen it, but it was the same as ever. Excitement, shyness, and turmoil all fused together to make a man drunk on love.

"Finish eating before you run off to Whiterun," Gerdur insisted with a chuckle, "and take an apple or two for the road, as well."

"Thank you, sister."

"I've got to get back to the mill before I'm missed. Make sure you say goodbye before you leave, you hear me?"

Once Gerdur was gone, Annika popped another wedge of cheese into her mouth, watching Ralof with a bemused smile. She wanted to ask about Ysolda, but his face still burned and he seemed to be avoiding her eyes. He began to ramble about Riverwood and the peaceful life he'd lived there, working the mill with his sister and her husband, before the war started ripping families apart.

A face drifted up out of her memory, a firm voice charging _Ralof, of Riverwood_ to step forward. "That legionnaire, in Helgen, who called you a traitor. Did you know him?"

Ralof smiled, but it was full of sorrow. "He's my best friend."

Annika suddenly wished she had asked about Ysolda after all. "He sure didn't sound like a best friend," she replied, keeping her words as gentle as possible.

"We haven't exactly seen eye to eye since the war began. Hadvar joined the Legion as soon as he came of age; it's something of a tradition in his family."

"His father is a legionnaire as well?"

"He _was_." Ralof picked at the last of his bread, all trace of cheer gone from his face. "Henrik was killed when the Empire first attempted to take Fort Greenwall, in the Rift. All Hadvar could see was his father's blood on Stormcloak hands, but I saw more. Henrik died defending the Empire and their ban on a god he once prayed to! He died protecting the Thalmor's right to execute _his own son_ should they discover that he still secretly worshipped Talos! And how many other Nords had already died for the same reasons? How many would continue to die for an Empire that had betrayed them? The injustice of it all infuriated me," he growled, shaking with the very anger he spoke of. "That's why I decided to join the rebellion. And that's why Hadvar called me a traitor—I'm in league with the people who killed his father."

Annika stared down into her flagon, speechless. It was one thing to be told of the war by those who weren't affected by it, but another thing entirely to speak to someone in the thick of it, to hear the pain in his voice and see the misery in his eyes. It made it all that much more real.

When she looked up again, she found Ralof watching her.

"You should come to Windhelm with me," he said. "Join the rebellion. You've seen the true face of the Empire today; you know better than most, now, why Skyrim needs to be liberated from it."

Despite the gravity of his words, Annika couldn't help but smile. "That's what I came back to Skyrim to do, actually," she told him. "That's why I was arrested at the border."

"What? You didn't tell the Imperials that you meant to join the Stormcloaks, did you?" he asked, his eyes widening.

Annika shifted in her seat. "Not exactly."

"What _did_ you tell them?"

She took a sip of her water, and a deep breath. "They asked what business I had in Skyrim," she began, "and I told them the truth: that I was returning home after several years abroad. The captain warned me that I was safer in Cyrodiil, that Skyrim was a dangerous place now thanks to 'that murderer Ulfric Stormcloak and his army of savages.' It would have been smarter to hold my tongue, I know, but... I couldn't stop myself from charging back that Ulfric wasn't a murderer, but a hero." She said it with the same zeal and confidence as she had the night before, even though Ralof needed no convincing. "Needless to say, the captain didn't appreciate that. He threatened to arrest me if I didn't swear allegiance to the Empire right then and there... but I refused."

"Oh, by the Nine," Ralof gasped. "You must have a death wish!"

"They're already dictating which gods I'm allowed to believe in; I wasn't about to give them control over what I thought and said, too. But, to be honest, I didn't expect it to go as far as it did." She shook her head, her brows drawing together in anguish. "This is not the Empire I remember. To arrest a person for nothing more than speaking words they don't agree with—it's madness."

"It's what we've been forced to live with since the day Ulfric challenged Torygg," Ralof growled. "The Empire has become cruel and ruthless, imprisoning and executing people at the slightest hint of defiance. And for what!" He slammed his fist down on the table. "So they can keep licking the boots of those damned elves!" He thrust a piece of bread into his mouth and chewed it with vengeance until he calmed down. "So, what did the captain do?"

"Drew his sword, and ordered his men to disarm me," Annika replied. "One of them threw my bow and arrows into their fire, and another held my arms behind my back. That's when I knew I was in over my head. The captain began shouting at me, cursing me for turning my back on the Empire and supporting treason against a High King. I thought he was going to kill me right then and there... but instead of a sword, he sunk his fist into my stomach."

Ralof nearly choked on his bread. "That bastard! Striking a defenseless woman!"

"They all had a good laugh about it, too."

She heard them cackling in the back of her mind, and felt, as she had the night before, less than human. That is what they had made her into; a thing, a toy, a piece of meat. Something to play with, and laugh at, and throw away once they grew tired of her. And they called the_Stormcloaks_ savages?

"At first, I did nothing," she went on. "I thought fighting back would only make it worse. But after the third blow... something in me snapped. I started struggling against the man who restrained me, and when the captain came forward, I spit at him and kicked him hard in the knee. Then his fist was flying at my face, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up on that carriage."

Ralof shook his head and let out a low whistle. "I guess that explains your black eye."

Annika gingerly touched the bruised skin over her left cheekbone. "I didn't know I had one."

For the first time in days, she took stock of her appearance. A black eye, a wild mess of singed hair, ill-fitting armor splattered with the blood of the legionnaires she had killed. She'd been able to wash the blood and soot off of her face at the river, at least, but she must have been a wretched sight nonetheless.

She began to laugh in spite of herself. "I can't step foot in Dragonsreach looking like this! The guards will think me a beggar and have me tossed out of Whiterun!"

"I'm sure Gerdur won't mind if you use her comb," Ralof suggested, trying to hide a smirk as he ran his eyes over her tangled mane, "Once we get to Windhelm, you'll be given armor that will fit you like a glove—if you still want to join the fight, that is, now that you know that the cost might be your life."

"I've always known that," Annika answered, a hot ferocity in her voice. "If anything, my desire to join is even stronger now."

"That's what I like to hear! You have just the sort of spirit Jarl Ulfric likes to see in his soldiers. Now, come on," he said with a grin, leaping up from the table once more. "We can make it to Windhelm by morning if we leave soon. You'll be a Stormcloak in no time!"

Annika beamed. The idea and the promise of being welcomed into Ulfric's brigade lifted her spirits and renewed her vigor. She downed what was left of her water, pocketed the last piece of bread, and stood up, ready and eager to begin their journey to Whiterun, and more importantly, Windhelm.

* * *

Whiterun's heavy gates were closed when Annika and Ralof arrived, an odd sight for a city known for its constant flow of traders and travelers. Two guards leaned back against the wall, shoulders slouched, arms crossed over one another, exuding an unmistakable air of boredom despite being faceless behind full iron masks. They snapped to attention when Annika and Ralof approached, and one stepped out onto the road to block their path.

"Halt!" the guard cried, holding one palm up while his other curled around the hilt of his sword. "City's closed. Official business only."

Annika and Ralof shared a worried look. Cities like Whiterun only closed their doors in matters of extreme danger—and what danger was more extreme than a dragon? This could only mean one thing: Imperials had made it out of Helgen and brought word to the city. There were likely legionnaires within the city walls at that very moment, perhaps searching for any Stormcloak prisoners who had escaped and were seeking refuge. But Gerdur's words echoed in Annika's head—_we won't have a chance of surviving without walls or guards_—and she knew they couldn't turn back now.

"We bring news from Helgen," she announced, hoping neither Ralof nor the guard heard the tremor in her voice.

"Do you?" The guard studied them for a long, tense moment before relenting. "All right. Go on in and speak with the Jarl."

He nodded to his partner, who swung the gates open and waved Annika and Ralof inside.

The moment they crossed the threshold, a cold chill ran down Annika's back. Her suspicions were right: a man wearing Imperial red stood not twenty paces away, a threat to her freedom, to her very life. She grabbed Ralof's arm and pulled him back, praying they could slip out of Whiterun before the legionnaire saw them, but the gates had already closed behind them.

"It's all right," Ralof said, coaxing her forward with a smile. "That's Idolaf Battle-Born. He isn't actually a legionnaire, just a staunch supporter of the Empire. All the Battle-Borns are, so don't expect a warm reception from any of them."

Sure enough, when the man turned and spotted them, his eyes narrowed.

"Get out of my city, Stormcloaks," he snarled at them.

"Nice to see you, too, Idolaf," Ralof returned as they strode past him.

Still worried, Annika glanced over her shoulder at the man. "What if he turns us in?"

"He won't. The Gray-Manes would have his head if he did something like that. They back the Stormcloaks," he explained, "and they have just as much power as the Battle-Borns do in Whiterun... maybe more, with their ties to the Companions."

Ralof related the history of the feuding clans as they walked through the city, but Annika's attention was elsewhere. Despite his reassurance, she couldn't help but fear the eyes of the people around them, unsure of who was a friend and who was an enemy. Not for the first time in her life, she regretted never learning the art of illusion magic; an invisibility spell would have made this journey much easier, and much safer.

Her worry began to abate once they reached the market, and memories came flooding back to her. She had only been to the city once in her life, the summer she was eleven. After a devastating winter, the summer had yielded exceptionally fruitful crops, and Annika's mother took her two girls to Whiterun to barter with merchants who were rumored to pay well for produce and game from other holds. Annika had made more gold from her meats and furs in one day in Whiterun than she did most weeks back home, and collected just as many compliments for being such a skilled hunter at so young an age.

Now, twenty years later, Whiterun was just as she remembered, though the dry, dusty roads were no longer as foreign and strange as they had been when she'd only known the rich soil of Kynesgrove, and the cold, wet granite of Windhelm. The inn, built of sturdy wood, looked cozy and inviting, and the aromas of fresh fruits and dried spices wafted over from the market stalls to envelop her in the warmth of familiarity. The mingling voices of merchants, citizens, and travelers weaved throughout the square in a soft but cheerful din. There were more people in this one district than in all of Riverwood, yet Whiterun, so enormous in her youth, seemed small now that she had lived a year in the Imperial City.

They weaved through the crowd at the market, Ralof craning his neck to catch a glimpse of each face. Annika wasn't sure if he was looking for Ysolda or for legionnaires, but he seemed to find neither before they continued up to Whiterun's middle tier. Beyond a majestic but wilting tree, a man in monk's robes stood with his hands outstretched to the sky, his voice booming over the empty courtyard that everyone else seemed to be avoiding.

"Rise up, children of the Empire!" He pointed an accusing finger at Annika and Ralof as they passed. "Rise up, Stormcloaks! Embrace the word of mighty Talos, he who is both man _and_divine!"

Annika's eyes went wide, and Ralof laughed.

"And you were worried about being seen in Stormcloak armor," he joked, bounding up the first of many steps to the palace. "Jarl Balgruuf hasn't sided with either the Empire or the Stormcloaks, so Whiterun is neutral territory."

"I didn't think such a thing as neutral territory existed."

"It does—or at least, it will until the Thalmor succeed at placing justiciars within the city walls. Try preaching about Talos in Solitude or Markarth," he muttered, "and your head will be rolling on the stone before you can blink. It's not nearly as oppressive here in Whiterun or down in Riften, but most people are too afraid to even say Talos's name out loud. Windhelm is the only city left that allows full worship; Jarl Ulfric wouldn't have it any other way in his hold. Here we are!"

Annika had only glimpsed Dragonsreach's pitched roofs from the market as a child, but now, it loomed up before her in all its grandiose beauty, and took her breath away. It was a seamless blend of Skyrim's rustic wilderness and Cyrodiil's cosmopolitan sheen, yet seemed bigger than both. As she turned in a slow circle, taking in the view of the palace, the city below, and the plains beyond, Ralof spoke to the guards flanking Dragonsreach's immense doors, and obtained their permission to enter.

Inside, there was even more to see. The vaulted ceiling seemed to be a mile away, shrouded in a gauzy veil of dust that swirled in the sunlight streaming through windows to the sky. Fine chandeliers hung overhead, but the light of their candles was eclipsed by the great hearth fire that roared in the center of the hall, surrounded by long tables dressed gaily and awaiting the evening's feast. Annika had never imagined that such regality could exist in Skyrim.

"What is the meaning of this interruption!"

Her eyes snapped forward to see a Dunmer approaching them, her brows drawn—as well as her sword.

"Riverwood calls for the Jarl's aid," Ralof answered. "They are defenseless against the dragon."

The woman's eyes narrowed. "_You_ know about the dragon?"

"We were at Helgen when it attacked."

She sheathed her weapon, but not her suspicion. "The Jarl will want to speak with you personally. Come."

They followed her to the dais at the end of the Great Hall. The Jarl, in all his finery, sat upon his throne, arguing with a man who spoke with an Imperial's sophisticated tongue, more familiar to Annika's ears, and more similar to her own dialect, than the Jarl's thick northern accent.

"My lord, this is no time for rash action," the Imperial charged.

"What would you have me do, then? Nothing?"

"We need more information before we act!"

The Dunmer cleared her throat. "My lord," she announced, presenting Annika and Ralof with a wave of her arm. "Two survivors from Helgen."

Jarl Balgruuf turned towards them. The moment his eyes met Annika's, her body flushed from head to toe, remembering the day it stood under the suffocating heat of another Jarl's gaze. She suddenly felt like a child again, small and insignificant before a man who seemed to hold the entire world in his hands—or at least, _her_ entire world. How similar this day was to that, and yet the woman she was now was nothing at all like the girl she had been then, thanks to that Jarl who had shaped all of her days since with one single act.

"Helgen!" Jarl Balgruuf exclaimed, drawing Annika out of her memories. "You saw the dragon with your own eyes?"

"Yes, my Jarl," Ralof said. "We saw it burn the village to the ground. Riverwood is now in danger of the same fate. We request your assistance on their behalf."

"My lord," the Imperial broke in, "if we send soldiers to Riverwood, Jarl Siddgeir will assume we're siding with the rebellion and preparing to attack Falkreath—"

"Enough, Proventus!" the Jarl shouted, turning angry eyes on the other man. "I understand your concern, but I do not share it. I will not stand idly by as a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people! We might be able to trust in the strength of our walls, but Riverwood does not have that same advantage. Irileth—send a detachment at once."

The Dunmer gave a perfunctory nod, already starting down the steps of the dais, while the Imperial, not bothering to mask his displeasure, bowed and stepped back from the throne.

The Jarl turned to his visitors once again. "What are your names?"

Annika couldn't swallow through the breath caught in her throat, let alone speak, and was relieved when Ralof spoke for both of them.

"I am Ralof, of Riverwood, and this is Annika, of Kynesgrove."

"Well, Ralof and Annika, you've done my hold a great service," Jarl Balgruuf declared. "I appreciate the risk you took in seeking me out, and I won't forget it. But... there is something more you could assist me with."

They both hesitated, thrown by the Jarl's request.

"Yes, my lord?"

He rose from his throne. "Come," he beckoned, waving for the two of them to follow him through the hall. "My court mage has lately been looking into the history of dragons. You may be able to offer valuable insight, having not only seen one, but survived one."

He led them to a study off the east side of the great hall. Though she had never dabbled in the arts herself, Annika recognized the alchemy laboratory, the soul gems displayed in delicate silver holders, the tomes and scrolls that practically hummed with magical energy. The priestess in Cyrodiil who had taught her how to heal had quarters much like these, filled to the brim with various instruments of the arcane, but Annika had never expected to see such devotion to magic in Skyrim.

"Farengar!"

A man in hooded robes looked up from the scroll his nose had been buried in, sparing no more than a lazy glance at the newcomers.

"I believe I may have found someone to help you with your research into the dragons," the Jarl told him. "Ralof and Annika were present at the attack on Helgen."

"Really!" Farengar set the scroll down and stood from his ornate wooden chair, studying the two of them with great interest now. "How fascinating!"

His enthusiasm over their brush with death had the same unsettling tone as that of the villagers who had gathered in Helgen to watch the execution, and as he raked condescending eyes over Annika's bruised face and loose armor, she began to regret following the Jarl into the mage's study.

"I would very much like to hear the details of the encounter," Farengar said, "but there is a much more pressing task I could use your assistance with."

Protestations were on the tip of Annika's tongue. She didn't want to relive the nightmare of the dragon's eyes boring into her very soul; she didn't care to spend another minute in the uncomfortable company of a man who had so quickly earned her disdain; she had pressing tasks of her own that she needed to pursue. But before she could devise a polite way to turn down the request, the Jarl cut in.

"I will, of course, compensate the two of you for your time," he told them with a gracious smile. "Five hundred septims for your help in this matter—just see my steward, Proventus, when Farengar is finished with you."

Leaving that irresistible carrot dangling before them, Jarl Balgruuf turned and strode out of the study.

Farengar clapped his hands together. "Now then! While the story of the attack on Helgen is most intriguing, I believe it would be more prudent to focus on preventing any further attacks. To do that, I will need you to fetch something for me."

From the corner of her eye, Annika could see Ralof growing ever more impatient.

"What do you need us to fetch?" she asked.

"A Dragonstone," Farengar replied, "an artifact of the ancient Nords said to contain a map of dragon burial sites. Only minutes ago, I received word that this Dragonstone is housed in Bleak Falls Barrow."

"All right. Where is Bleak Falls Barrow?"

"You get straight to the point—I like that. Leave the details to your betters, am I right?" One corner of his mouth curled up into a smirk. Annika wasn't sure if the affront was deliberate or if he was always this patronizing, but either way, she was liking the man less and less by the second. "Fortunately, the barrow is very close," he went on. "It's near Riverwood, a miserable little village a few miles south of here."

She could almost feel the heat of Ralof's fury radiating out of him in waves, and when he drew in a deep breath, she worried that he was about to lose his temper with the mage and land them both in trouble. Instead, he forced a smile that was the very opposite of friendly.

"Excuse us for a moment," he said, taking Annika's arm and pulling her away.

She didn't speak until she was sure they were out of earshot.

"He's awful, I know," she whispered, "but five hundred septims! We must do this!"

But Ralof was already shaking his head. "Five hundred septims isn't worth the time we'll waste."

"It is to me," she insisted, clinging to the hope that the promise of gold had given her. "Your life is waiting for you in Windhelm, Ralof, but everything I had in this world was taken away from me last night. All we need to do is fetch something from a barrow, and we'll have enough gold for a warm meal, a good night's sleep at the inn, and a carriage to Windhelm—and we'll still make it there by sundown tomorrow! How can we refuse?"

He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes flashing between desire and duty, but he finally gave a sigh of defeat. "I'm sorry," he said. "I need to get to Windhelm as soon as possible. If Jarl Ulfric didn't make it back, no one there will know what happened at Helgen—and no one will know to go looking for him."

She knew at once that Ralof was right. He might be needed in Windhelm, and could not afford to spend any more time away. But she couldn't afford to pass up an opportunity like this, no matter how much she longed to stand before Ulfric Stormcloak and swear fealty to his cause. She could survive on hunting foxes and rabbits if she had to, but that wasn't possible without arrows—and the eight she'd salvaged from Helgen wouldn't last forever. The arrows alone would be worth postponing her journey to Windhelm, but that gold could also buy meals for a month and clothes to sleep in other than chainmail. Most importantly, it would buy her a sense of security—at least for awhile.

"Go on, then," she told Ralof. "I'll meet you in Windhelm."

His disappointment was written all over his face. "Are you sure? Barrows can be dangerous—"

"I can handle a few Draugr, don't worry." She gave him a tremulous smile. "I'll buy you a drink at Candlehearth Hall tomorrow night and tell you all about the adventure, all right?"

Ralof hesitated, likely still worried for her safety. But it wasn't his help she needed; it was his companionship.

"All right," he finally replied. "You have yourself a deal."

They shared a brief embrace, and a fretful voice in the back of Annika's head wondered if she would ever see him again.

She didn't want to watch him leave, so she returned to Farengar, holding her head high and hoping to convince both the mage and herself of her bravery.

"I will retrieve the Dragonstone for you," she announced.

The mage stared after Ralof, one eyebrow raised in confusion. "What of your friend?"

"He has other duties to attend to. Will that be a problem?"

He looked her up and down, and huffed his annoyance. "No, I suppose not," he sighed.

Annika made no effort to hide her dislike of the mage as he described the Dragonstone and the barrow in which it was interred, dropping snide remarks about his suspicions of her incompetence along the way. He painted a picture of certain death, smirking the entire time, as though the idea that she might survive was a joke.

"Find the tablet," he finished with obvious sarcasm, "and bring it to me—simplicity itself."

If it was so simple, she wanted to ask, why didn't _he_ fetch it? And if he was so sure that she would be useless in this task, why was he bothering to send her at all? But she only gave him a curt nod before spinning around, more than ready to leave the study that had become too full of the mage's arrogance to have any room left for the likes of her.

Jarl Balgruuf, perched once more on his throne, paid Annika no mind as she marched past the dining tables and the hearth fire, nor did the whining Proventus, nor the children who strutted about, making absurd demands of the servants. Perhaps she did not need a spell to be invisible, after all.

* * *

The palace looked somewhat less impressive now that she had heard the Jarl bickering with his steward and bore the brunt of the court mage's condescension. In her youth, she had placed the nobility of the great city of Whiterun high on a pedestal, and was both stunned and disappointed to find it crumbling under their feet. These people may have lived in luxury, wearing fine clothes and eating gourmet meals, but beneath the surface, they seemed no more regal than the peasants in the market.

The Dragonstone hit Farengar's desk with a crash that resounded through the silent castle. Within moments, the mage stumbled into the study from an adjacent chamber, his nightdress flapping around his ankles, his face the very picture of confusion as he blinked at Annika. When his bleary eyes landed on the tablet, they grew to twice their size.

"The Dragonstone," he breathed, rushing over to it. He ran the tips of his fingers across it in great reverence, as though it were made of delicate vellum and not heavy stone. "You found it! And you came back in one piece!"

"That," Annika growled, "is debatable."

Farengar glanced up at her, and seemed taken aback by all that he hadn't noticed before: the blood coating her right arm, the slashes in her blue Stormcloak wrap, the ferocity in her eyes.

"Ah," he said, trying to hide his amusement, but not quite succeeding. "Run into some trouble with the Draugr?"

She had to laugh. Draugr were easy prey compared to the foxes and rabbits she'd hunted her entire life—it's hard to miss a target that's either sleeping or shambling mindlessly towards you. Not even the master of the barrow himself had offered much of a challenge; it may have taken her thrice as many arrows to bring him down, but she was much faster and spryer than he, and it hadn't taken much effort to stay out of reach of his rusted axe. No, she'd had no trouble with the _dead_ denizens of the ruin.

"Did you know that place would be crawling with bandits?"

She had her answer as soon as Farengar's eyes skipped away from hers.

"I had an idea," he replied. "Barrows are often full of gold, after all, and gold attracts bandits, does it not?" With a shrug, he turned his attention back to the Dragonstone, tracing the strange symbols carved into its face, similar in design to those that had covered the curved wall behind the master's casket. "Isn't it beautiful? Imagine, a piece of ancient history, right here, in my very own hands!"

Annika shook her head in disbelief. She'd almost been killed by bandits he hadn't bothered to mention would be there, and all he cared about was an old slab of rock. She was covered in blood and bruises, and all he could do was shrug.

If she'd disliked the mage before, she despised him now. Not because of the wounds she'd suffered, or even the ambush itself, but because he had backed her into a corner with no easy way out. She'd had no choice but to kill those bandits, or else be killed herself, and if she accepted the Jarl's gold now, it would be nothing more than blood money. But without it, she'd be desolate and destitute with even less hope of reaching Windhelm alive than she would have had if she'd left Whiterun with Ralof.

She simply could not afford to leave Dragonsreach empty-handed.

"Where can I find the steward?"

"Sleeping in his bed, I presume," Farengar replied, taking a seat at his desk and waving her away now that he had no further use for her. "If you'll excuse me, I have a great deal of work to do."

This time, Annika was the one to shrug, and she made sure to wipe her muddy boots on Farengar's fine carpet on her way out of the study. That small piece of retribution was nothing compared to what the mage had put her through, but it would have to be enough.

She stalked past the long dining tables that had been cleared since the evening's meal, thankful she hadn't been there to smell the rich aromas of what the highborn could afford to eat; what little she would be able to buy for her own dinner would pale in comparison. She doubted the guards would wake the steward for anything as paltry as her reward, but she had lifted enough septims from the bandits to buy herself room and board at the inn for the night; she would return for the gold promised to her in the morning.

She was steps away from the castle's doors when they flew open with a clatter. Three guards tumbled inside, one badly burnt and injured, the other two supporting him on either side.

"Dragon!" one of the men cried out. "A dragon is attacking!"

In moments, the hall was filled with the entire court and their guards, as well as a tension so thick the air itself seemed to hum. Thoughts of the inn slipped away as Annika lingered in the shadows the castle's foyer, listening to the guards tell the Jarl that the dragon had all but burned down the western watchtower, watching the fear wash over everyone's faces before they could mask it with courage. The stench of burnt flesh, singed hair, and fresh blood—and the grim memories they conjured—might have made her ill had there been anything in her stomach.

When the guards described the dragon's pearly gray hide and snowy white wings, Annika knew it could not be the same beast that had attacked Helgen, and that chilled her more than anything else. There were now _two_ of these horrors razing villages and killing innocents. How many more were taking to the skies at that very moment? How many would they be able to quell before Skyrim was completely decimated?

The Jarl, looking no less dignified in his silk robe and stocking feet than he had in his earlier regalia, thanked the injured guard for his bravery, and asked the others to see him to the temple to be healed. He ordered Irileth to gather the city's garrison at the front gates to ready a retaliation, and denied Farengar's beleaguered requests to accompany them. He was about to turn back into the castle when he spotted Annika on the fringes of the crowd.

"You!" he cried, waving her forward. "The survivor from Helgen! You're the only one here who has any experience with a dragon!"

The hall went silent, and all eyes fell upon her. She shrunk into herself, growing hot under the sudden attention of nobles and warriors alike.

"But—but I don't," she sputtered, too stunned by the claim to remember the proper etiquette for speaking to a Jarl. "I have no experience with dragons aside from watching men fall under one's fire while running for my own life."

"But you've seen one," the Jarl insisted. "You've survived one! Surely you must know more about the beasts than any of us do!" He approached Annika in her failure to answer his beckoning, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin so that his height seemed greater and more intimidating than it truly was. "You called for my help earlier," he reminded her. "Now I'm calling for yours."

But he had already asked for her help—the hastily-healed wounds and bruises that shadowed her arms and hid under her armor could attest to that. How many times did she need to risk her life for the Jarl before he would be satisfied? At least once more, it seemed; his stony eyes and heavy brow were an obvious warning that she would never see the gold he'd promised her if she refused him now. And so she found herself trapped in yet another corner. She could turn her back on the Jarl and his hold and try to make her way across the wilds of Skyrim with only a sparse pocketful of gold to her name. Or, she could face this dragon, and leave Whiterun five hundred septims richer—if she managed to live through the night.

But this wasn't Helgen. She was no longer a helpless prisoner with bound wrists. She had a sturdy bow, and two full quivers of arrows stolen from the crypts of sleeping Draugr. She had chainmail and leather armor, and the colors of the Stormcloaks swathed across her chest. She had confidence and valor born from rushing bravely into impossible battles and emerging triumphant. And, this time, she would be running towards the dragon, instead of away from it; she would be the hunter, not the hunted. And that would make all the difference in the world.

"Of course, my lord," she acquiesced with the slightest sigh, bowing to the Jarl. "What is it that you need me to do?"

"Follow Irileth to the western watchtower," he replied, "and put that bow on your back to good use. If we are to have any hope of defeating this thing, we need to be able to attack it in the air with as much force as possible."

"Yes, my lord."

Irileth had already disappeared through the grand doors. Annika hastened after her, barely able to keep up as the Dunmer charged down the long stone staircase and through the winding roads of the city. Whiterun was dark and quiet, most of its residents asleep in their beds, enjoying dreams of fancies and blissfully unaware of the danger that lurked nearby, threatening to burn their homes to the ground at any moment. She wasn't sure whether to envy them, or pity them.

Every one of the city's guards were, as the Jarl had ordered, mustered at the front gates; some were more than eager for battle, while others shook with fear. They fell quiet as Irileth approached, and gave her their full and rapt attention as she addressed them. She spoke of honor and duty, of the peril their homes and families faced; she spoke of the glory that was theirs to take, the glory of killing a creature that had been but a legend until that very morning. Her words seemed to inspire courage and drive in even the most frightened men, who took their swords and axes to hand, while the more zealous warriors amongst them pounded their chests and bellowed battle cries.

Annika, too, pulled her bow from her back, and while she knew she would have a better chance of landing blows with her arrows than the warriors did with their steel, she couldn't help but feel small and insignificant as she got lost in the crowd of men nearly twice her size. It didn't help that the housecarl shot her a cold and disparaging look as the garrison surged through the front gates, making it clear that she did not share the Jarl's delusions that Annika had anything worthwhile to offer them. After all, what was one outsider with a simple hunting bow amongst the hold's best archers who had trained all their lives for battle?

As soon as they were past the city's walls and battlements, they saw the western horizon aglow with fire; the stars above had been erased by the billowing smoke of dry brush burning. But the night was silent, and that, somehow, seemed even more foreboding than a dragon's roar would have been.

The closer they drew to the watchtower, the slower the guards moved; even Irileth seemed to grow anxious, her grip on her sword faltering. Annika, however, was stunned to find that, instead of fear beating its frantic wings against her heart, she was filled with nervous excitement. As she searched the sky not in dread, but in anticipation, she realized that some small part of her wanted to see this dragon. Wanted to see if its eyes would dig into her as the last one's had; if this one would speak to her, too. She needed to know if it had all been in her imagination.

The pounding footsteps and rustling armor of the approaching garrison drew two frightened guards out of the watchtower.

"Get back!" one of the men shouted, waving them away with both hands. "It's still here somewhere!"

But the only movement on the plains came from the plumes of smoke and their perpetual rise into the air. Irileth rushed to the men hovering in the archway of the watchtower, wasting no time in pummelling them with questions.

"When did you last see it? Which way did it go?"

"I don't know," the guard answered, shaking his head. "It—it grabbed Hroki and Tor when they tried to run! It picked them up in its mouth and flew off..."

The man continued to speak, but his words became nothing more than noise. Another sound had lured Annika's attention away, a sound so faint that it was more of a quake in the air, something to be felt rather than heard. It moved across her skin and into her bones, echoing throughout her body in perfect tandem with the rise and fall of her chest.

The dragon was still here, somewhere. And she could hear it breathing.

Annika tilted her head back, lifting her gaze from the base of the watchtower to its roof. She could just make out the seam where stone ended and sky began through the curtain of smoke, but nothing more. Nothing, until the pointed tip of a thick and muscled tail slithered up into the air, flicking back and forth in undeniable glee. And there were its eyes, two pinpricks of reflected fire against the dark backdrop of the night, watching her watching it.

Neither Irileth nor any of the guards noticed Annika's arm snaking up and over her shoulder to slide an arrow, inch by inch, out of its quiver; their voices continued to dance around her, contemplating the whereabouts of a beast that lay in wait right above their very heads. She held not only her tongue, but her breath, as she drew the string of her bow and took aim. The dragon tilted its head ever so slightly to the side, as though amused, perhaps believing that her flimsy little arrow would do nothing to its tough and leathery hide.

But she wasn't aiming for its hide.

The dragon reared back with a thunderous roar when the arrow sunk into its left eye, and the fragile calm of the night shattered into chaos.

The garrison scattered as the beast launched into flight, and in its rage and confusion, sent a torrent of fire down onto an empty plain. Whiterun's archers shot arrow after arrow into the sky, while sizzling bolts of lightning streaked out of Irileth's palms to catch the dragon's tail. It circled the watchtower three times before it dove towards the bulk of the garrison and grabbed one of the men in the gnarled claws of its feet. The guard plunged his sword into the dragon's leg; it roared in pain once again, and let its prey plummet back down to the earth.

Annika counted down her arrows as she fired at the beast—twenty-three, twenty-two, twenty-one—but none were reaching their mark. When she hunted, she aimed not where her prey was, but where it _would_ be, but this dragon flew too high and too fast for her to keep up with. And the way it moved was dizzying in its unfamiliarity—it swam through the air like a snake in the sea, weaving this way and that quicker than she could make sense of it. At twenty arrows, she lowered her bow, knowing that she would have little chance of hitting the dragon from the ground. She needed to be higher.

Darting past the archers who refused to surrender and the warriors awaiting their chance to strike, Annika tore across the plain and into the watchtower. She climbed over the rubble that covered the spiraling staircase, remnants of a wall that now opened to the sky, until she emerged into a night cooler and clearer than it was down below.

Breathing hard and feeling sweat trickling over her temples and between her breasts, Annika crouched behind a parapet scored with claw marks to watch the dragon swoop over the heads of those who couldn't reach it. It was teasing them, taunting them, bathing them with fire as it spiraled through the air with twists and turns that were almost graceful, despite the arrow jutting out of the beast's blinded left eye—the arrow that had not been enough to kill it, only anger it.

When the dragon next swerved away from the watchtower, Annika let an arrow fly, watching just long enough to see it hit its shoulder before ducking once more below the parapet. Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen—she landed three more hits before her prey grew wise to her scheme and arced over the roof, snarling in fury when it found her. Their eyes met, and in that flash of a moment, Annika was stripped bare of clothes and skin, of a name and a history, of her entire life, and she was no more than a soul floating in the mist between realms, just as she had been in Helgen when the fiery eyes of that hellish beast had pinned her down and picked her apart.

The dragon's jaws stretched apart, and the same strange words Annika had heard once before roared out of its mouth.

"_YOL TOOR SHUL_!"

She raced for the stairs, but the dragon's flaming breath beat her there. She leapt through the curtain of it, feeling the skin peeling from her arms and her lungs curling up into ash. She was dead, or dying, she was sure of it, but as she tumbled down the watchtower's unforgiving stone steps, each one seeming to break a new bone, the pain that engulfed her entire body promised her that she was still alive. The curve of the wall broke her fall, and she collapsed into a heap, gasping for air that didn't seem to exist. When she dared to open her eyes, she found that the agony was far worse than the actual damage; her arms, though red and blistering, had not melted away, and her bones were still intact. Her hands trembled as she healed herself, and she wondered just how much destruction her body would be able to handle before it became impossible to put it back together again.

A resounding crash shook the walls of the watchtower, sending a shower of dust down into Annika's face. Outside, the dragon howled, and it took her a moment to realize the sound came from below her, not above—it had finally landed. But this battle was not over yet.

She pushed herself to her feet and began the climb to the roof once more. Making no effort to conceal herself this time, Annika stumbled to the edge and peered over the parapet at the bedlam below. The warriors of Whiterun hacked and slashed at the dragon as it snapped its jaws at them, and when it tried to take to the skies, it lost its footing and fell once more. Its hide was growing bloodier by the moment, but that would not be enough to kill a creature of that size and strength.

Annika braced one foot against the parapet and sent a volley of arrows down to the plain. Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen—she missed her mark as the dragon whipped its head at the guards who had gotten too close. Thirteen, twelve, eleven—the sinews of the creature's neck strained and snapped as they were severed by the piercing tips of her arrows. But it still was not enough.

She wiped her damp hands on her tunic before drawing her bow once more. One eye snapped shut as she took meticulous aim and let the arrow—ten—soar through the air and the smoke, past the dragon's swinging tail, to pierce the back of its head. A cry louder and more chilling than any others before it burst from the creature's gaping mouth before its entire body went limp and slammed against the ground.

She waited for a twitch of its tail or a beat of its wings, for its back to rise and fall with breath, for fire to pour from its mouth and into the faces of the men who continued attacking. But nothing happened. The dragon was dead.

It was over.

Thank the gods, it was over! And she was alive! Bruised and bloody, but alive! She dropped her bow and leaned back against the parapet, laughing and crying, in relief and disbelief, that she had not only survived a second dragon, but she had helped defeat it. And she knew, now, beyond all doubt, that the beasts—both of them—had looked into her soul, and spoken to it, and tried to extinguish it with flaming breath that carried words on its crest. But the questions of why, and how, and to what end, would have to wait. She cared not to think on these impossible things now; all she wanted to do was revel in the life she still pumped through her veins, that the dragons had not managed to snuff out.

Her exhaustion no longer eclipsed by adrenaline, Annika now felt every ache in every muscle, and a heavy blanket of fatigue weighed down each of her limbs. She would have been content to lie down and sleep right there on the coarse stone of the roof, but as cheers of victory rose up from the ground below, metal clanging against metal as the men embraced and beat each other on the backs in congratulations, she pushed off of the parapet and began the descent through the watchtower, step by arduous step.

Outside, fires continued to smolder across the plain, keeping the air clogged with smoke, and the triumphant smiles of the men who had escaped death were thinning as they began to tend to the broken bodies of those who hadn't. They might have won, but not without suffering some loss.

Irileth, however, seemed more concerned with the body of the dragon; she gave it a wide berth as she circled it, her sword still drawn and lightning still crackling in her hand, as though fearful that it would attack the moment she let her guard down. But the thing lay completely still, and the eerie sound of its breathing had ceased, leaving it as stiff and silent as a statue carved from stone. Annika moved closer to tell Irileth that it was, indeed, dead, but before she had drawn the breath to speak, the dragon's body began to glow from within. She stopped short, as did the housecarl, and they watched with tense anticipation as the light grew brighter and stronger.

And then it was engulfed in flames. Its flesh seemed to disintegrate in the fire, turning to ash and floating away into the night as if it had never existed at all, leaving nothing but the gleaming white bones of its skeleton behind.

A pulsing heat suddenly enveloped Annika's body, and she stumbled back in a panic before seeing that it wasn't fire, but wind, that was flowing out of the dragon and into her. It blew her hair up off of her sweaty neck and flapped what was left of her Stormcloak wrap around her waist, but it didn't harm her. It caressed her, stroked the tender skin of her face with comforting hands, filled her with something so vast and endless it was a wonder that her small body could contain it all.

The wind and the fire died out together, leaving her invigorated and weakened all at once, buzzing but breathless, staggering on legs that were no longer strong enough to bear her. She whirled about to see a hundred wide eyes watching her, questioning her, revering her.

Annika fell upon the singed and dusty grass, surrounded at once by silhouettes that blotted out the stars that spun in the sky. She reached out for something that might anchor her to the world, but her fingers closed on air, and then she was spiraling into the void. A veil of blindness slid over her eyes, but her ears caught a single word echoing across the plain before she was plunged into the realm of darkness and dreams.

"Dragonborn!"


End file.
